


Something Wicked This Way Hums

by like_a_raven



Category: Glee, Supernatural
Genre: AU, F/M, Glee/Supernatural Crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-07
Updated: 2012-09-07
Packaged: 2017-11-13 18:37:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/506486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/like_a_raven/pseuds/like_a_raven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU in which a teenaged Dean accidentally joins the McKinley High Glee Club. (What? It could happen to anyone.) Complications, and Rachel Berry, ensue. The way complications, and Rachel Berry, do.  Originally written back in the days when Karofsky was a bit, and hockey, player.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The Highway to Hell Goes Through Ohio

  
  
"It's pronounced LEE-ma," Sam says, from the backseat. "Not LIE-ma."  
  
"What?" Dean says, half-turning around to look at his brother. Dad's eyes don't leave the road, but Dean thinks he hears him half-sigh. Sammy's in a mood this afternoon.  
  
"L-I-M-A," Sam says, as close to condescendingly as even he dares. "When it's a city, it's pronounced Lee-ma."  
  
"Not in Ohio, Sammy."  
  
"Well, that's stupid," Sam says. "A LIE-ma is a bean."  
  
"So we're moving to Beantown," Dean says, one eye on his brother and one on Dad.  
  
"Beantown is Boston. How come we have live in stupid places?"  
  
"Because the smart places take one look at you and tell us to leave," Dean tells him.  
  
"Boys," Dad says, "that's enough. You watching for that exit, Dean?"  
  
"Yes, sir," Dean says, turning his attention back to the road.  
  
Sam lapses into one of those incredibly loud silences he's more or less perfected since turning twelve in the spring. It's the sort of silence that eventually gives way to yelling, as often as not. And yelling, in turn, gives way to extra miles run or pushups done.  
  
Still, while Dean would never, _ever_ , say it out loud, because he's not all that fond of extra pushups . . . Sam has a point. They live in crap towns. Someplace like Boston would be cool. Dean takes a moment to imagine sneaking into Fenway for games and . . . whatever the hell else you do in Boston.  
  
But no, they’re moving to Lima, Ohio, latest in a series of the places that have what Dad looks for in a place to live, which does not include a baseball team or things to do on the weekend. Dad like places that are big enough for a little anonymity, small enough to not have the police presence and surveillance cameras of a big city, centrally located enough that Dad can follow up a lead on either coast if he has to.  
  
It's early October, an odd time for them to be moving. Dad generally likes to move them between school years – it looks a lot less suspicious. But a hasty, mid-school-year move had seemed like a good idea after what happened in Altoona.  
  
Their next door neighbor, Mrs. Gilliam, had been really nice. She brought them over a welcome-to-the-neighborhood apple pie, and she let Sam follow her around her garden asking endless questions and playing with her dog.  
  
She'd also had an incredibly hot seventeen-year-old daughter, Mandi, who liked to lie on the back deck in a itty bitty pink bikini, catching the last of the summer rays. Sam and Dean's room had overlooked the Gilliams' back deck, and all in all, Dean thought Altoona was going to be a not unpleasant place to spend his sophomore year.  
  
Which meant it had totally sucked when the full moon had rolled around and sweet Mrs. Gilliam and smokin' Mandi had both morphed into werewolves.  
  
Dean supposes it had sucked for them, too.  
  
Best not to hang around after that, though.  
  
So it's good-bye, Altoona, hello LEE-ma.  
  
LIE-ma.  
  
Whatever.

Sweet Home _à la_ Lima

  
  
The house Dad has rented has two tiny bedrooms and is furnished in Early Yard Sale Reject. It's close enough to the middle school that Sam can walk, and close enough to the high school that "the walk'll be good for you, Dean."  
  
Sam smirks and dashes off to their room. He always does that – he thinks that if he gets there first, he can claim the less lumpy mattress. Dean just lets Sam figure it out and then makes him trade, as is his right as the oldest. (Saves the effort of figuring out which is the better mattress.)  
  
It's one of the many near rituals that go with arriving in a new place. The rest follow in quick succession: Dad goes to get groceries, Dean makes Sam swap beds, there's a great deal of muttering about that fact while they unpack the few things they bring with them. They're done before Dad gets back.  
  
Dad leaves Dean in charge of putting the groceries away and fixing dinner, saying that he's going to follow up on some lead Bobby gave him for a job. And by "job" here, Dad means someone who might need a hand around a garage, not a ghost thing. Unless the neighbor suddenly sprouts fangs, Dad tries not to do that kind of job too close to "home."  
  
Dean thinks about making Sam come help with KP duty, but that will mean listening to more whining, and Dean's kind of liking the quiet. Sam is sulking back in their room, still stubbornly reading _Kidnapped_. It had been assigned as homework the day they left Altoona, so Dean's not sure why he's bothering. Maybe it's more interesting than it looks. Or maybe he's trying to make some kind of point that's a little lost on Dean.  
  
Dean looks at the groceries, considers his options, and decides to make burgers. He's just about got them done when Dad gets home, and makes Sam leave his room and come join them for dinner.  
  
Whenever he's home, Dad insists that they all sit at the table and have dinner together. Sam bitches about it, Dean doesn't. They don't get a lot of the moments people are supposed to get with their families. Dean gives Dad points for trying when he can. He thinks Sam is more interested in deducting points for the times Dad can't.  
  
The conversation is disjointed this evening. They're all tired, and they've spent most of the day in the same car, anyway. Sam eats as quickly as he can and then asks to be excused. Dad sighs and lets him go.  
  
To break the silence that follows Sam's departure, Dean asks how the meeting at the garage went.  
  
"Good," Dad says. "This guy – Hummel – he thinks he might have some work for me from time to time."  
  
Dean nods. The money won't hurt, the cover of a respectable income source will help more.  
  
"And he's got a kid in your grade. Kurt. Said he'd tell him to keep an eye out for you."  
  
"What, like a babysitter?" Dean asks. "Because I don't need—"  
  
"I think he'll just say hi to you or something, Dean."  
  
Dean would still protest – he doesn't need a welcome committee or whatever – but there's no point. Dad can't change anything. And maybe this Kurt kid won't be totally annoying.  
  
"Okay," Dean says.  
  
"I'll take care of the dishes. You should get some rest. New school tomorrow."  
  
"Yes, sir," Dean says.  
  
He'd rather deal with the dishes than with Sam's ongoing sulk, and it's not like there's really anything to do to get ready for school tomorrow. Sam might like to lay clothes out the night before, but Dean's more of a _grab the closest clean—or clean enough—shirt and go_ kind of guy.  
  
In their room, Sam is sprawled on his lumpier mattress, still reading his book. He doesn't even look up when Dean comes into the room, just turns to face the wall.  
  
Dean flops down onto his own bed.  
  
So far, Lima is shaping up to be like every other damn town they've ever lived in.

Welcome to the Jungle (We've Got Fun and Games)

  
  
Dean stops on his way into William McKinley High School the next morning. If anyone is watching, it will look like he's just stopped to retie his shoelace. In reality, he's scoping the place out – where the entrances and exits are, what the traffic to each of them is, what places could provide good cover, what . . .  
  
What the hell?  
  
About ten yards ahead, a kid in a wheelchair is staring forlornly up at the backpack dangling from a tree branch above his head. And no one seems to be stopping to help him, or even really giving him more than a passing, mostly disinterested glance.  
  
Well, Dean always does like to get his daily good deed over and done with early.  
  
"Here," he says, pulling the bag down out of the tree.  
  
"Thanks," the other kid says, taking it from him.  
  
"People are dicks," Dean says, because it's easier than saying _you're welcome_.  
  
The kid shrugs. "It's kind of the way is works here. You're new?"  
  
"First day," Dean says. "I'm Dean."  
  
"I'm Artie. And it's okay if this is the last time you speak to me. I'll understand." He wheels himself off before Dean can ask what that's supposed to mean.  
  
He starts to follow Artie, and then stops. There's a group of guys in letterman jackets watching him. They look like they make up what they lack in brains with a complimentary lack of any other redeeming qualities. Dean gives them a smirk and a salute and heads into his new high school.  
  
He's directed to the guidance counselor's office. Ms. . . . some kind of food. Kellogg, maybe? It's nothing he hasn't done before – answer a few questions about his transcript, be given a class schedule, get told how happy they are to have him here at wherever and know that if he ever wants to talk about anything, her door is always open.  
  
And that's exactly how things go with Ms. Pillsbury (see? food), until . . .  
  
"Oh, and you'll need to pick an extracurricular activity."  
  
"Excuse me?" Dean says.  
  
She sets a list of clubs and organization in front of him, exactly midway between the hand sanitizer and the box of tissues, edge of the paper a precise inch away from the edge of the desk. "Students are all required to participate in an extra curricular activity this year. Principal Figgins thinks it will help you all get a well-rounded education and make friends with your peers through shared experiences."  
  
"If it's required, doesn't that make is less 'extra' and more 'cirricular'?" Dean asks.  
  
"How about a sport? Do you play any sports? Coach Tanaka is always looking for new football players. Especially if they can actually play football."  
  
"No," Dean says. He spends enough time running around sweating with his training, thanks.  
  
"Hmmm," says Ms. Pillsbury. "What about the school paper, or the yearbook? Or the literary magazine?"  
  
"No," Dean says, again. He's not really the literary type.  
  
"Well, maybe something like Mathletes? Or the debate club?"  
  
"No," Dean says. Sam would die of laughter.  
  
"I know," Ms. Pillsbury says. "Glee Club. They need people, and I bet you'd really enjoy it."  
  
Glee Club. Dean has no idea what that is, but it sounds happy. Sounds lame. Sounds like the sort of total waste of time activity no one will care if he skips so he can do stuff that really matters.  
  
And it has to be better than Mathletes, right?  
  
"Fine," he says. "I'll join the Glee Club."  
  
Ms. Pillsbury beams. "Wonderful. I'll tell Mr. Schuester to expect you."  
  
Dean wonders if she's just trying to project enthusiasm, or if that was his warning to not even think about skipping out on his extracurricular. "Awesome."  
  
It won't kill him to show up once or twice, he guesses. No sense in rocking the boat in his first week.  
  
Ms. Pillsbury produces a class schedule and floor plan of the school that she seems to have attacked with a whole army of highlighters, marking his locker, classrooms, the library, the cafeteria. She draws a neat blue star on one more room and hands the papers to him. "That's where Glee Club meets."  
  
Dean takes them from her.  
  
"Welcome to McKinley High, Dean. We're really happy to have you here. And if you need to talk about anything, my door is always open."

Sing Out Loud, Sing Out Strong

  
  
Dean is three minutes late to his first Glee Club meeting. He knows he can blame being at a new school, getting lost, all that crap, but the truth is that he doesn't want to go setting expectations very high right off the bat.  
  
It's a pretty small club. A half dozen kids sit facing a person who must be Mr. Schuester. He's standing in front of a piano, so Dean guesses this room must get used by the choir when the Glee people aren't being positive all over it.  
  
For a Happy Club, these kids don't look very cheerful. He gets a small smile of greeting from Artie, who is the only person here he recognizes. The other five kids eye him warily.  
  
"You must be Dean," Mr. Schuester says, turning to him. "Ms. Pillsbury said you'd be by. Everyone, this is Dean Winchester. He's new here at McKinley High and interested in joining us. Dean this is Rachel, Mercedes, Tina, Finn, Kurt, and Artie."  
  
"We've met," Artie says.  
  
"And his dad is working with my dad," Kurt adds. Kurt is not what Dean was expecting, and the idea of this kid keeping an eye out for him is kind of hysterical. He's only half-paying attention to whatever Mr. Scheuster is saying as he walks over to take a seat among his students. "So, show us what you can do."  
  
That gets Dean's attention back to the teacher. Show them what he can do? Dean stares at the seven faces, all clearly waiting for him to . . . to what? What the hell do they want him to do? Shoot something? Build a flamethrower? Run a nearly four minute mile? Those are all things Dean can do, but no one has ever asked for a demonstration in a classroom before.  
  
"Do what now?" Dean asks, when the silence has gone on too long.  
  
"Just sing any song you like," Mr. Schuester says, encouragingly.  
  
Sing . . . any . . . song . . . Dean looks from the faces to the piano to the room he's standing in.  
  
He . . . oh, God, he's joined some kind of singing club.  
  
He can't be in some kind of singing club.  
  
But he also can't explain that he thought he was joining an optimist's club, because how stupid will that make him look?  
  
Still, if Dean couldn't think on his feet, he'd be dead a dozen times over by now. So all he needs is a quick plan. Like, say, blowing the audition. If he sucks at singing (which Dean knows he kind of does), surely they'll just politely thank him for his interest and send him back to Ms. Pillsbury to find a different lame activity, right?  
  
Dean picks "Black Dog." It's inappropriate in every way; the lyrics are heavy with the sex, his voice has nothing in common with Robert Plant's beyond both emerging from human throats, and it's really not a song meant to be sung _a capella_ on the fly. It's a _disaster_.  
  
Perfect.  
  
No one says anything when he's done, not for a good five seconds. And then the girl in the middle of the front row – the one wearing a sweater with a cat on in – puts her hand up. "Mr. Schuester, I'd like to speak, if I may."  
  
"Rachel, of course," he says, and Dean wonders if he's imagining the weariness in the teacher's tone.  
  
Rachel stands. She looks way serious. "I believe I speak for all of my fellow Glee Club members," she says, throwing a glance back over her shoulder at them, but none of them so much as nods, "when I say . . ."  
  
Dean waits to be told to get the hell out of the room, so when Rachel suddenly smiles, it's quite disarming.  
  
"Welcome to the club, Dean. We're so happy to have you."  
  
Wait. _What?_  
  
"But my audition was . . ." he says.  
  
"Purely _pro forma_ ," says Kurt, smoothing his hair back into place. "We take everybody."  
  
"Oh."  
  
Well, crap.  
  
He only catches snatches of what follows, seven people all talking at once, to each other and to him. " . . . read music . . . classic rock . . . start slow . . . don't worry . . . talent . . ." He somehow winds up holding sheet music for something called "The Impossible Dream," sitting behind Artie and next to . . .  
  
"Hey, I'm Finn," the other kid whispers, as everyone settles back down. "Welcome to McKinley High."

No Good Deed (Goes Unpunished)

  
  
It's not easy to catch Dean Winchester off guard.  
  
But he's still trying to figure out what the _hell_ just happened – he's in a _singing_ club – and anyway, who expects an assault to come from a cardboard beverage cup?  
  
So one minute Dean is heading for his locker, and the next he's dripping with twenty ounces of bright red slushie.  
  
And son of a bitch but that's _cold_.  
  
Dean's hand has already formed a fist when he turns to see one of the letterman jackets from the morning, empty cup still in hand.  
  
"Welcome to McKinley High," he sneers, not even slowing down.  
  
It takes all of Dean's self-restraint not to hand this guy his ass. He could, too. Dean is good at sizing up opponents, and this guy would hardly be a challenge.  
  
But Dean doesn't fight like high school guys do, and it's easier not to start than to figure out where to stop. Plus, getting in a fight on the first day is going to attract a lot more attention than Dean wants, or than Dad will like.  
  
He does almost clock the person who puts a hand on his arm a second later, before recognizing Kurt and Artie.  
  
"What the hell was that?" Dean asks them.  
  
"That was Dave Karofsky," Kurt says. "Calling him a brainless, charmless Neanderthal is an insult to brainless, charmless Neanderthals." He nods towards the boys' bathroom. "Come on. We're experts at post-slushie care and repair."  
  
"Experts?" Dean repeats, letting them herd him into the restroom. His eyes are starting to sting. "Does this happen a lot?"  
  
"To some of us," Kurt says, turning on the faucet at the first sink and pulling a washrag and several bottles out of his bag.  
  
"Between helping me this morning and then joining the Glee Club, I'm afraid you're a marked target in the slushie war. Splash some water in your eyes," Artie advises. "It'll help."  
  
Dean does, splashing water all over his face. Artie's right; it does help a little.  
  
"I'll take it from here. Close your eyes," Kurt says, pouring some kind of goop out of a bottle onto the wash cloth.  
  
It goes against his gut to close his eyes, or to let people he barely knows rub goop into his face, but he does. His hand is still clinched into a fist, though. "No one makes them stop?" he asks.  
  
Kurt laughs.  
  
"It's just the way it is here," Artie says.  
  
"There," Kurt says, and Dean opens his eyes. "Your shirt's a total loss, though—" Kurt's eyes flick down to Dean's well-worn shirt in a way that makes Dean feel a little more appraised than he's comfortable with – "though not much of one," Kurt concludes. "That is really not a good color for you. But your pores should be okay."  
  
"Um, thanks," Dean says. "For the help with the pores."  
  
"You're one of us now," Kurt says.  
  
"And like the Marines, we protect our own," Artie says. "Except that we're not in any way actually badass."  
  
"I can handle the badass part," Dean says.  
  
The looks he get are more humoring than suitably impressed, and looking in the mirror, Dean has to admit he'd have trouble taking himself seriously right now, too.  
  
"Well, anyway, welcome to McKinley High," Kurt says.  
  
Dean's not sure how much more welcome he's going to be able to take.

Son of a Bitch (Now You're Messing With a)

  
  
Dean leaves for school early the next morning. He has a stop to make on the way.  
  
It hadn't been hard to look up places likely to sell slushies, match the logo on the cup to a particular convenience store, and then figure out its Lima locations. The hardest part, really, had been getting Sam to stop whining about needing the computer.  
  
He can't just beat Dave Karovsky to a pulp, as appealing as that plan is. No, he's going to have to be subtle.  
  
Well, subtle-ish.  
  
The trick is going to be to do just enough that the story gets around, and Dean gets a _do not mess with me_ reputation without getting expelled.  
  
Or arrested.  
  
Or both.  
  
He waits in the parking lot until he sees Karofsky emerge from the store, slushie cup in hand. And then knocks the cup out of his hand, catches his arm, twists it around behind him, and shoves him up against the wall of the convenience store.  
  
"I wanted to thank you for the welcome you gave me yesterday," Dean says. "Real nice town you've got here."  
  
"You're dead, Winchester."  
  
Dean tightens his grip on Karofsky's arm and twists it a little more. He won't actually break it . . . but Karofsky doesn't know that. "Here's the deal. You and your friends are gonna keep your hands and your drinks to yourselves. And in return, I'm gonna do the same. We understand each other?"  
  
"Yeah," Karofsky mutters.  
  
"Sorry, didn't hear that."  
  
"Yes, okay?"  
  
"Peachy," Dean says, letting him go and stepping away.  
  
He's ready for it when Karofsky tries to slug him. Karofsky, however, is not ready for Dean to be ready, and winds up back against the wall.  
  
"Let's try this again," Dean says. "Do we understand each other?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"You sure?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Okay."  
  
This time, when Dean lets him go, Karofsky just stands there. Dean turns to go, and then thinks of something else. "Oh, and stay the hell away from the Glee Club."  
  
Not that Dean is going to stay in the Glee Club. Artie seems cool, and Kurt is nice enough, but . . . it's a freakin' singing club. He'll just go see Mr. Schuester and explain and that'll be that.  
  
At least, that's the plan that morning. But when he goes to talk to Mr. Schuester, he stumbles onto another audition.  
  
By three cheerleaders.  
  
Two blondes and a brunette and he couldn't begin to say which one is the hottest.  
  
Well, there's probably no harm in staying in the club for a week or so, right?

Everybody's Talking 'bout the New Kid in Town

  
  
Word gets around fast in high schools. It just doesn't get around _accurately_. By Wednesday, Dean has overheard that he dislocated Karofsky's shoulder, broke his arm, even tore off his arm – this last despite all visual evidence to the contrary. Rumor has it that he not only slammed Karofsky into the wall but through it, and into the drinks machine, where he nearly downed on grape slushie.  
  
It's exactly what Dean was going for. It's given him a reputation for being a badass, and no one has come near him with a drink cup again. And it's ridiculous enough that the teachers and administration are ignoring it.  
  
It's starting to look like McKinley High might not be all bad. Yeah, he's still stuck in a lame singing club, but it's only temporary, right? And the addition of the cheerleaders has made Glee Club more interesting, too. Especially when Santana asks if he's free Saturday, and Dean suspects she's not looking to spend some extra time rehearsing "Bridge Over Troubled Water."  
  
Yep, he can work with—  
  
"You. New Kid."  
  
Dean stops. There's a woman in a green track suit with yellow stripes coming toward him from the other end of the hall. And she looks determined. The way Dad looks determined when there's a particularly nasty spirit involved.  
  
This can't be good.  
  
"So, New Kid," she says, reaching him.  
  
"Dean," he offers. "Dean Winchester."  
  
"Oh, New Kid, I can't be bothered to learn your name. Don't interrupt me. As I was saying, we had a disaster at Cheerios practice yesterday. Gilbert fell off his stilts, hit the bleachers, ricocheted into the water cooler, and landed on a tackling dummy. Apparently, the impact shattered a third of the bones in his body."  
  
Dean winces. And wonders where the stilts come into anything. Or why she's bothering to tell him all this. But before he can ask, the woman continues.  
  
"Now, I personally feel that a little minor discomfort is no reason to mollycoddle a student with a full body cast and a cushy three-month stay at the hospital. Most of his bones are fine, and I do not condone laziness. But because of liability concerns, I am not allowed to put him back on the squad until he has a doctor's release. So, congratulations, New Kid. You are now a member of a five-time national champion cheerleading squad."  
  
"What?" Dean asks. "You . . . you want me to be a _cheerleader_?"  
  
Is everyone in this school insane?  
  
"I'm sure it's not an honor you had dared to hope for, New Kid, but you look strong enough to propel a girl ten feet in the air, and your physical appearance neither makes me want to scratch out my own eyes or vomit."  
  
"Um, look, ma'am. Thank you, I think, for the offer, but I can't be a cheerleader."  
  
Hook up with one? Sure.  
  
Be one? Not so much.  
  
"I know it's intimidating," the woman says.  
  
"It's not that," Dean says. "It's . . . look, I'm sure it's great for the guys it's great for, but I'm not one of them. And I'm kind of already busy with Glee Club."  
  
"Glee Club," the woman snarls. And, yeah, _snarls_ would usually be over-the-top, but it's the only word that works here. "Fine, offer rescinded. But mark my words: you will rue this day, New Kid."  
  
"I'll get right on that," Dean says, under his breath, as the woman in the tracksuit stalks back down the hall.  
  
"Did you just turn down Coach Sylvester?" Mercedes asks, who must have arrived in the hallway sometime during the conversation, because Dean hadn't seen her before it.  
  
"Is that who that was?" Dean asks. "Then, ah, yeah."  
  
"You have no idea what you've just done, do you?"  
  
"You mean aside from not joining the cheerleading squad? What?"  
  
"You'll see," Mercedes tells him. "Trust me, you'll see."  
  
  
  
Songs Referenced in Part One:  
"Highway to Hell" by AC/DC  
"Sweet Home Alabama" by Lynyrd Skynyrd  
"Welcome to the Jungle" by Guns N' Roses  
"Sing" from _Sesame Street_  
"Black Dog" by Led Zepplin  
"The Impossible Dream" from _Man of La Mancha_  
"No Good Deed" from _Wicked_  
"Hair of the Dog" by Nazareth  
"New Kid in Town" by the Eagles  
"Bridge Over Troubled Water" by Simon  & Garfunkel

 

A/N:  Many thanks, as always, to J & L, my wonderful betas.


	2. Chapter 2

Whatever Rachel Wants, Rachel Gets

  
  
It's kind of amazing. As far as Dean can tell, declining to become a Cheerio has done even more for his badass reputation than twisting the arm of a hockey player did. By Friday, Karofsky is old news. Dean is now "you know, the one who shot down Coach Sylvester."  
  
One nerdy little dweeb even stops him in the hallway, grabs his arms, and announces, "You, New Kid, are my hero." Then drops his voice to a whisper to add, "But don't tell Coach Sylvester I said so."  
  
So far, despite Coach Sylvester's prediction that he'll rue the day, the only negative impact is that he seems to be getting something of a cold shoulder from the three Cheerios in Glee Club. But, honestly, their shoulders are hardly the parts Dean tends to pay attention to, anyway.  
  
He's just about decided that his first week at McKinley High has been a success, as first weeks in a new school go, when someone links their arm through his. Fortunately, at this point, he's had a lot of practice at not punching his fellow students when they abruptly grab his arms. Which is good, because this is Rachel.  
  
"So," she says, like it's perfectly normal for them to be walking down the hall arm in arm, "now that you're in Glee Club, I'm making you my new project."  
  
"You really don't have to do that," Dean says. He's not real clear on what she's talking about, but whatever it is, she doesn’t need to do it.  
  
"The timbre of your voice is actually quite pleasant," Rachel continues. "You just need to work on singing the right notes. And not being sharp. Or flat. I can help with that. I'll give you personal singing lessons."  
  
Dean stops walking. "Whoa. Um, look, Rachel, I'm not anyone's project. So unless 'personal singing lessons' is supposed to be some kind of code for seeing what's under that . . . pinafore, I'm really not interested."  
  
"I accept."  
  
Dean takes a step back. She's got this smile. And she looks scary.  
  
The kind of scary that makes him wish he was packing holy water.  
  
Or an AK-47.  
  
"Accept what?" he asks.  
  
"Your invitation. You can pick me up at eight."  
  
She's gone halfway down the hall before Dean works out what just happened.  
  
Does she think he just . . .  
  
Is she expecting him to . . .  
  
Maybe he should have just punched her.  
  


Watercolored Memories of the Way We Aren't

  
  
"I kind of have this date tonight," Dean says, at dinner, in the moment both Dad and Sam have their mouths full. It buys him maybe an extra second before Dad says, "Kind of?" and Sam says, "Who with?"  
  
Sam's question is easier, and Dean starts with it. "Rachel. She's this girl I know from . . . um . . . Glee Club. Pass the salt, Sammy."  
  
Sam does, but it doesn't stop him from asking, "What's Glee Club?"  
  
"It's a choir," Dad says, when Dean doesn't answer the question.  
  
His sons both stare at him.  
  
"Don't they teach you anything in school any more?" Dad asks.  
  
Sam recovers first. "You joined a choir? Have they heard you sing? Because you suck. No, you, like, whatever's even worse than sucking."  
  
"That's enough, Sam," Dad says.  
  
"Well, he does," Sam mutters, but lets it drop.  
  
"Look, I didn't mean to," Dean says. "The guidance counselor said I had to do an extracurricular activity, which is not fair at all, because they're supposed to be optional, that's the whole point, right? But whatever. I thought Glee Club was gonna be, you know, like a bunch of people trying to harness the power of positive thinking and all that shi—stuff. Something totally lame and easy to skip. And instead, it's a choir."  
  
"How is anybody that stupid?" Sam asks.  
  
"Shut up," Dean says.  
  
"Enough," Dad says, again. Sam looks like he's got more to say, anyway, but Dad continues before he can. "Your mother was in the Glee Club in high school."  
  
"She was?" Sam asks.  
  
It's news to Dean. He remembers Mom more than Sam does, he even remembers her singing "Hey Jude" when she tucked him into bed at night. But she died when he was four, and if she told him stories about when she was growing up, he doesn't remember them.  
  
"Yeah," Dad says, eyes not quite focused on anything that Dean can see.  
  
Well, crap.  
  
It's not like Mom's not kind of there all the time – the ring on Dad's finger and the empty chair at every table for four. The reason they live the way they do. But there's really no such thing as a casual reference to Mary Winchester.  
  
And now Dad is looking all . . . misty. He looks _misty_ , and even Sam knows to shut up.  
  
Which means that there's now no freaking way Dean can drop out of Glee Club.  
  
"So," Dad says, after a moment, eyes coming back to his older son, "how do you 'kind of' have a date?"  
  
"Um," Dean says. "Okay, I was talking to Rachel, and I _didn't_ ask her out, but she thinks I did so she told me I could pick her up at eight and then she left before I could explain that I didn't ask her out so now she's expecting me and yeah, she's kind of annoying and I think she might be crazy, but I can't just not show up, because you just don't do something like that. So, um, can I borrow the car?"  
  
"I just want to make sure I have this straight, son," Dad says. "First you accidentally joined a choir, and then you accidentally asked a girl from that choir out on a date?"  
  
Dean nods. "Yes, sir."  
  
Dad scrubs a hand across his face, and Dean is expecting the lecture of his life, because, yeah, put like that, Dean sounds like a _moron_.  
  
And then Dad starts to laugh. He takes the keys to the Impala out of his pocket and slides them across the table to Dean. "Be home by midnight."

I've Had the Time of My Life (But It Wasn't Here With You Tonight)

  
  
His date with Rachel doesn't completely suck, it just comes close. She's nice, he guesses, and she's hot, but she never shuts up. She's worse than Sam.  
  
They go miniature golfing, and she talks while they're getting their clubs, while they're walking from hole to hole, while he's trying line up his shots, and even while she's trying to line up _her_ shots, which she's really not very good at. (The girl shoots a _nine_ on the par three windmill. A _nine_. Dean gets a birdie.)  
  
Every so often, he tries to focus on what she's talking _about_ , but every time he does, he realizes that he doesn't care. It's a lot about musicals, which sound even weirder than Dean thought – apparently there's one with puppets. And one about how the Wicked Witch of the West was just misunderstood.  
  
"Wait, what?" he asks, breaking in when she pauses to breathe. "She was evil. With the flying monkeys and stuff."  
  
Sam had nightmares for _weeks_ about those freakin' monkeys.  
  
"No, she's good. She was trying to save Oz and make things better for everyone, even though she'd been treated as an outsider and ostracized her whole life for being a freak. I so identify. Plus she has some amazing solos. Elphaba is my dream part."  
  
"Elphaba?"  
  
"That's her name. In the musical. Elphaba Thropp."  
  
"Right," Dean says.  
  
"What about you? What's your dream musical part?"  
  
"I don't have one," Dean says. Does he really seem like the kind of guy who has a dream musical part? Really?  
  
"Well, what’s your favorite musical?"  
  
Dean tries to come up with a musical he's ever even seen. "Um. Well, I saw the movie where Johnny Depp was cutting people's throats and stuff."  
  
Dean had gone to see it because Johnny Depp is awesome and, hey, that chick from Fight Club was in it and it looked like a slasher flick with demon barbers, and then there was all this . . . singing.  
  
Totally lame. If he hadn't snuck in, he'd have wanted his money back.  
  
But it's enough to get Rachel started on the topic of movie adaptations of Broadway musicals, and Dean can go back to focusing on the tenth hole.  
  
And then, all of a sudden, Rachel is singing along with the music piped in over the speakers. Which would be horrifying enough if the song hadn't been some Celine Dion thing about driving all night.  
  
"What are you _doing_?" Dean asks. People are staring.  
  
"I always make it a point to sing along with anything in my range," Rachel says. "Toni Braxton was discovered while singing to herself at a gas station, and she has six Grammys now. You never know who's listening."  
  
Dean looks around, and then gestures to their fellow golfers. "Pretty sure no one at the Lima Putt-Putt is secretly a talent scout."  
  
"But you never know," Rachel says, and gets back to her song.  
  
When he finally does get her to shut up, it's with a good night kiss that lasts about ten minutes, and leaves him revising his estimation of their date up quite a bit.  
  
Dean get home at 11:58, and grins as he tosses the keys back to Dad.  
  
"Did you have a good time?"  
  
"Good enough," Dean says.  
  
"Good. Son?"  
  
"Yes, sir?"  
  
"Next time you ask a girl out, make sure you mean to do it."

You Probably Think This Song Is About You

  
  
The rest of weekend passes much more pleasantly than Friday night did. His date on Saturday, after all, is with Santana, who is still overall pretty damn hot, cold shoulders or no. There's a lot less conversation on that one than the one with Rachel, and a lot more kissing (good night and otherwise). There is absolutely no singing. Dean has no complaints.  
  
Sunday is spent on training and helping Dad with the Impala and okay, maybe some homework. Sam a little less cranky than usual that day.  
  
He walks into McKinley High in a pretty good mood on Monday morning. It lasts until he gets to his locker, where Rachel is waiting for him. And she doesn't look like she's waiting to tell him again what a great time she had.  
  
"How dare you?" she asks.  
  
Dean pauses with his hand on the lock. "How dare I what?"  
  
"You know exactly what."  
  
"No, I really don't." Why do girls do this?  
  
"Santana. How dare you cheat on me with _Santana_?"  
  
"'Cheat on you'? What? Rachel, you and I went out once. And that's only because—"  
  
"It was implied by your actions that you wanted to engage in a serious and exclusive relationship."  
  
"It was?"  
  
How?  
  
"Well," Rachel say, "this is your loss. If you can't appreciate me, and treat me with respect, I am going to have to break up with you. But you will regret this, when you realize what you had. And what you let get away."  
  
And then she turns on her heel and storms off down the hall before Dean can point out that she cannot break up with him because they were _never dating_.  
  
There's a definite chill in the choir room, when he arrives. Rachel is in conference with Tina and Mercedes and Kurt, who all look over at him as he comes into the room, and then go back to their discussion. Dean takes the seat next to Artie, whose only comment is to glance at the others and then roll his eyes.  
  
"Okay, guys, let's start," Mr. Schuester says. He writes the word _you_ on the white board behind him. "Let's talk about your assignment for the week."  
  
Oh, and that's another thing. How come extracirriculars are not only mandatory, but come with homework?  
  
"I want you to find a song addressed to another person," he says. "It can be anybody you want – friend, girlfriend, boyfriend, parent, sibling, anyone. Think about something you really want to tell this person, and find a song that conveys that sentiment. But it has to be addressed to the person. It has to use the word . . ." Mr. Schuester reaches back to tap the white board, ". . . _you_."  
  
There's a general mumbling in reaction and then Rachel's arm shoots into the air. "Mr. Schuester, I would be happy to demonstrate. I know a song that expresses _exactly_ what I'd like to say to someone."  
  
Mr. Schuester gestures _go ahead_ and Rachel takes her place in front of the piano.  
  
Here's the deal. Dean wouldn't exactly describe himself as humble, but he's never thought he was all that vain, either. Furthermore, he doesn't own a Leer Jet, he wouldn't be caught dead an apricot scarf, and he has no idea what it means to gavotte, though he thinks watching yourself do it sounds kind of kinky. But after four minutes of having it sung directly at him from a distance of three feet, yeah, frankly, Dean _does_ think this song is about him.  
  
"Okay, thank you, Rachel," Mr. Schuester says, when she finally finishes. "I think we all get the idea. So I want you all to go home and give this some thought."  
  
"What did you do to her?" Artie asks Dean, quietly.  
  
Dean shrugs. "I don’t know." Which is only sort of true, because he knows she's mad about the Santana thing. He just thinks it seems like a bit of an over reaction from a girl he's known for a week and been on one stupid date with it. "But I know what I'm _gonna_ do to her."  
  
"And what is that?" Artie asks.  
  
"I'm gonna sing something right back at her."

You're No Good for Me, I'm No Good for You

  
  
When Dad gets home that evening, Dean is sitting in the floor of the living room, with an aging boombox and every cassette he'd been able to find.  
  
"Son?" Dad says. "What are you doing?"  
  
"He's making a lot of noise while I am trying to study," Sam says, appearing in the door to the kitchen.  
  
"This is my homework," Dean says. "I have to find a song."  
  
Dad looks at the albums in a sprawl around Dean. "Well, I think you have at least one there."  
  
"Yes, but I have to find a song addressed to a 'you' and that I can sing at Rachel," Dean says, dropping _Physical Graffiti_ and picking up _Eliminator_.  
  
"He's been doing this for hours," Sam says.  
  
"Rachel?" Dad says. "The girl you didn't mean to ask out on a date."  
  
"Yes. Her. Crazy chick."  
  
"And you want to sing at her?"  
  
"It's my assignment for Glee Club. I am trying to find a song that says, _Listen up, sweetheart. I cannot have cheated on you because we were never dating, and you can't dump me because again, never dating_."  
  
Dad clears his throat, and Dean looks up. Is Dad laughing at him?  
  
"Well, if I think of any songs like that, I'll let you know."  
  
Dad is definitely laughing at him.  
  
"Sammy, why don't you come help me with dinner?" Dad asks. "And Dean, why don't you find some headphones?"  
  
"Yes, sir," they both say, and Dad and Sam vanish off into the kitchen.  
  
It takes hours, but when Dean finally stumbles off to bed that night, he has found the perfect song.  
  
Now he just needs help with it, which means talking to Artie and Finn. It's classic rock, after all, so he's going to need a guitar and some drums.  
  
And since it is kickass classic rock, and not some lameass show tune, they both agree pretty quickly to help him. Artie raises an eyebrow at his choice, but don't say anything. They practice it on Tuesday, and when Mr. Schuester asks for volunteers on Wednesday, Dean puts his hand up.  
  
"Okay, so, ah, I picked a classic, because emo pop was not going to get it done," Dean says. "And Artie and Finn are gonna help. So this a great song by The Guess Who –"  
  
"Do we have to?" Brittany asks. "Guessing games take me a long time."  
  
"Ah, no, that's actually the name of the band. They're Canadian," Dean says. "Anyway, I'm singing this song in response to something someone told me recently, and I think it makes my feelings real clear."  
  
"Okay," Mr. Schuester says. "Take it away, guys."  
  
In Dean's opinion, it's hard to miss The Guess Who's message to the "American Woman." _Stay away from me, leave me be, I don't want to see your face no more, I have more important things to do than go miniature golfing with you._ No one could misinterpret that. Add a killer baseline and some awesome guitar, and you have a great _kiss off_ song.  
  
Finn puts the final beats on their performance, and Dean turns to Mr. Schuester.  
  
"Well, Dean, that was—"  
  
It's as far as he gets before Rachel jumps up out of her seat and throws her arms around Dean's neck. It's the most surprised he's been since the slushie incident, and for one moment, he thinks she's trying to kill him.  
  
And then he focuses on what she's saying.  
  
"That was so brave. I hadn't given any thought to how hard it must be for you, being at a new school and probably just overwhelmed, and then to have a connection to someone right at the start, like the one we have. I think it's just wonderful that you could get up in front of all of our peers and tell me how you feel. I'm willing to devote time and energy to making this relationship work. I forgive you."  
  
"Um—" Dean says.  
  
But then the bell rings, and she's gone, with something about needing to get to her dance lesson and promising to call him later.  
  
"What just happened?" Dean asks Artie.  
  
"I think you just got Kravitzed. His cover was more about sex appeal and _you drive me crazy but in a good way_ than the original."  
  
"This is why people need to leave the classics alone."  
  
"Amen," Artie says.  
  
The rest of the class has filed out, but Brittany is still sitting there, looking even more vague than usual.  
  
"You okay there?" Dean asks.  
  
"Is it the Beatles?" she asks.  
  
Dean thinks about trying to explain, and then just nods. "Got it in one."

He's Kind of Big and He's Awful Strong

  
  
Dean does try to clear up Rachel's misconception about the nature – and, you know, _existence_ – of their relationship. It just doesn't work. She takes his arm in the hall, rests her head on his shoulder in Glee Club, sits with him at lunch. By the end of his third week at McKinley High, Dean seems to be the only person at McKinley High who doesn't think he's dating Rachel Berry.  
  
And while Dean is still trying to get that sorted out, Dad gets a call about some zombies, which sounds like a two-man job, and which means that Dean is the second man in question. (Sam pitches a fit about missing school and is allowed to stay home, which means Dad's worried and distracted whenever he's not actually hunting, which makes things all kinds of fun for Dean.)  
  
Dean returns to McKinley High after a three-day absence with a forged doctor's note and a story about some kind of flu. Before he can use either, though – hell, almost before he gets through the door – he sees Dave Karofsky throw a grape slushie in Rachel's face.  
  
Dean is not her boyfriend, which means that it's not his job to defend her honor or whatever. Except everyone thinks he _is_ her boyfriend, which makes him look like a total dick if he doesn't respond to that kind of insult, especially when it happens right in front of him. Except if he does anything, he will _never_ convince Rachel they're not actually dating. Except that even if they're not dating, she's still a friend – sort of – and you don't standby while someone throws a slushie at your friend, especially if you've told the guy not to. Except Dad seriously frowns on getting in fights at school because it attracts attention. Except that _not_ slugging Karofsky probably attracts more attention than slugging him does, at this point.  
  
All of which goes through Dean's head in the approximately 2.8 seconds it takes for him to cross the lobby and introduce his fist to Dave Karofsky's nose.  
  
He spends the rest of the week out on suspension, but Dad seems to understand.  
  
And when he gets back to school on Monday, Rachel has gotten Mercedes and Tina to help her with a performance of "My Boyfriend's Back," which she gushingly dedicates to Dean in front of the whole Glee Club.  
  
Dean makes a mental note that if he and Rachel are going to be hanging out, and it appears that they are, he is going to have to introduce her to some music that doesn't totally suck.  
  
Which means he has no one to blame but himself for what happens next.

Gunter Glieben Glauchen Globen

  
  
"Mr. Schuester, I have something to say."  
  
"Rachel, of course," Mr. Schuester says, with a resignation Dean is in complete sympathy with.  
  
Rachel stands and turns to face the Glee Club. "As you all know, we have our fall invitational fast approaching, and of course, we cannot take our eyes off sectionals, and I've been thinking. Dean is right. Emo pop is not going to get it done. There's a well-established tradition of rock-and-roll being used on Broadway, and I believe that this approach would suit us well. We can draw inspiration from seminal productions like _Hair_ and _Jesus Christ Superstar_ , and of course, The Who's _Tommy_ , which successfully blurred the lines between rock concept album and staged musical drama, resulting in the genre of the rock opera. Even now, while derivative and perhaps going to far in catering to popular taste, the recent so-called 'jukebox musicals' have shown that the music of groups like Queen can translate to the Broadway stage."  
  
Rachel produces a pile of sheet music and drops it on the piano. "With Dean's help, I have identified several classic rock songs that I believe could easily be adapted to our needs and strengths as a Glee Club."  
  
So _that's_ why she was suddenly interested in hearing what he had to say about music.  
  
"These are some good choices, Rachel, Dean," Mr. Schuester says, flipping through the pile of music Rachel has put on the piano.  
  
Dean wants to protest that he has nothing to do with it. That it would never have occurred to him that the music of a group like Blue Öyster Cult needed to be reinvented by a bunch of high school students.  
  
Seriously, it's going to take more than one performance by a Glee Club in Ohio to make, say, Journey relevant again, no matter how awesome they were back in the day.  
  
But everyone else seems to be onboard with the idea, so Dean resigns himself to spending the next few weeks listening to songs he loves get butchered by people who probably think Def Leppard is the latest attraction at the Zoo for Disabled Animals.  
  
Only . . . they don't suck. In fact, after a few rehearsals, they're actually good.  
  
Sure, the songs have changed. And Dean and Artie lose the campaign to keep the guitar solo in "Carry On Wayward Son," but the song works well as a choral piece, and Artie sings the hell out of the vocal solo, at least.  
  
And Kurt hits the high notes in "Wheel in the Sky" in a way that Steve Perry himself would probably envy. Maybe the Glee Club can cause a Journey revival after all.  
  
As for Rachel, well, Dean thinks she sounds like a bit of a drama queen, speaking her way though the opening chorus of "Love Is a Battlefield," but once she starts singing, there's no denying the girl has some serious pipes.  
  
He's actually really impressed with the way Mr. Schuester has created a girls versus guys mash-up of "All Day and All of the Night" and "You Shook Me All Night Long." He's happy, too, that the leads on that have gone to Mercedes and Finn.  
  
Mr. Schuester was all apologetic about not giving him a solo when it was supposedly Dean's idea in the first place, but Dean is totally okay with it. All he has to do is worry about the group parts in those numbers, and "Burnin' for You," which they're all singing together.  
  
He's just about concluded that the concert might not be the lamest night of his life when—  
  
"What do you mean, costumes?" Dean asks.  
  
"Well, since this is a performance, Dean, we'll have costumes."  
  
"And we have to make sure they won't hinder the choreography, and make changes as necessary as soon as possible," Rachel adds, handing him a shiny black shirt with yellow lightning bolts down the sleeves.  
  
Wait – choreography?  
  
Dean takes it all back.  
  
This totally sucks.  
  
  
  
Songs Referenced in Part Two:  
"Whatever Lola Wants" from _Damn Yankees_  
"The Way We Were" by Barbra Streisand  
"(I've Had) The Time of My Life" by Bill Medley and Jennifer Warnes  
"I Drove All Night" by Celine Dion  
"You're So Vain" by Carly Simon  
"American Woman" by The Guess Who (also covered by Lenny Kravitz)  
"My Boyfriend's Back" by The Angels  
"Rock of Ages" by Def Leppard  
"Carry On Wayward Son" by Kansas  
"Wheel in the Sky" by Journey  
"Love Is a Battlefield" by Pat Benatar  
All Day and All of the Night, by The Kinks  
"You Shook Me All Night Long" by AC/DC  
"Burnin' for You" by Blue Öyster Cult


	3. Chapter 3

 

It's the End of the World as We Know It (And I'm Okay, I Guess)

  
  
"Are you okay?" Tina asks, as they wait in the choir room for it to be time to take their places and start the Fall Invitational.  
  
Dean nods, but doesn't say anything. He's afraid that if he opens his mouth, he's going to hurl.  
  
"You sure?" she asks. "You don't l-l-look so good."  
  
He nods again, and manages to say, "Just need to get some water." He gives her a tight-lipped smile that he hopes makes him look just fine, really, and heads for the water fountain in the hall.  
  
This isn't happening. This _can't_ be happening. He's _Dean Winchester_ for Christ's sake. He has faced down ghosts and werewolves and a crazy woman who wanted him to be a cheerleader.  
  
He _cannot_ have stage fright.  
  
But he does.  
  
Dean clings to the water fountain and tries to breathe. Maybe he can just sneak out the side entrance or something.  
  
And then Rachel turns up, and he braces himself for seventeen reminders about his footwork and six vocal warm-ups he needs to run through and all that crap.  
  
Instead he gets a hug. "Don't worry," she tells him. "You're gonna be great."  
  
And damn if she isn't right. Well, maybe he's not _great_ , but he's fine. He remembers all the words, doesn't knock anybody over, and doesn't spew all over the stage. He'll call it a win. He's actually in a pretty good mood as they all spill out into the hall, trading high fives and compliments.  
  
Until he runs into –  
  
"Sammy? What the hell are you doing here?"  
  
Dean had very deliberately not told Dad and Sam about this concert.  
  
"Mr. Hummel invited us to come with him," Sam says. "He called Dad to come help with something this afternoon, because he was trying to get it done in time for the concert."  
  
Perfect. Just . . . perfect.  
  
"You didn't suck," Sam tells him. "And everyone else was good."  
  
"Well, thanks."  
  
"And I think your girlfriend's really pretty."  
  
"Shut up."  
  
Sam frowns. "Do you want me to think your girlfriend's ugly?"  
  
"She's not my girlfriend, Sammy."  
  
"Does she know that?" Sam asks. And then points at something, before Dean can answer. "Because it looks like she's going to talk to Dad."  
  
Oh, _crap_.  
  
Dean makes a beeline for Rachel, Sam trailing after him, but doesn't get to her before she reaches Dad. Instead, he arrives just as she puts her hand out and says, "You must be Mr. Winchester. I can certainly see where Dean gets his rugged if unpolished good looks."  
  
Sam makes a noise like he's being choked.  
  
Dean makes plans to see if he can join Witness Protection. Or the French Foreign Legion. Or the Space Program.  
  
"You must be Rachel," Dad says, taking her hand. "Dean has mentioned you, though he didn't say just how talented you were. You have an amazing voice."  
  
It is so weird to see Dad be all charming.  
  
Rachel beams. "Thank you. And we're so glad to have Dean in the Glee Club. He's made great progress, and you should be really proud of him."  
  
"Hi, Dad," Dean says, deciding he is gonna cut this off before it gets any stranger. And then turns to Rachel. "Sorry to interrupt, but there was some question about what to do with the costumes in the choir room?"  
  
"Of course," she says. "It was really nice to meet you," she tells Dad.  
  
"You, too, Rachel."  
  
As she sets off for the choir room, Dad shakes his head a little. "So that's Rachel. You’re going to have a hard time keeping up with her, son."  
  
"Tell me about it," Dean mutters.  
  
"You kids were good," Dad says. "I'm glad Burt mentioned it."  
  
"About that," Dean says. "I'm sorry, I just figured –"  
  
"I know," Dad says.  
  
Okay, so this is awkward.  
  
And that's when Rachel screams.

We Ain't No Delinquents, We're Misunderstood

  
  
Dean reaches the choir room first, though who knows how many people are behind him.  
  
Rachel is standing in the doorway, not moving, but also no longer screaming.  
  
"Are you okay?" Dean asks, wishing he were armed. And not in a shirt decorated with lightning bolts. He looks into the room without waiting for Rachel to answer and well, damn.  
  
Rachel points anyway, though there's no way Dean could have missed the prone figure of Dave Karosfky. "Is he dead?"  
  
Other people are arriving now, and Mr. Schuester and Ms. Pillsbury push past them into the room. Dean can see Dad and other members of the Glee Club in the hall.  
  
"He's alive," Mr. Schuester says, fingers against Karofsky's throat. "Somebody call 911."  
  
"I've got it," Ms. Pillsbury says, stepping back into the hall.  
  
As far as Dean can tell, Dave Karofsky has been clocked with the music stand in the floor next to him. And as for what he was doing in the choir room in the first place, Dean is guessing that has something to do with the itching powder packet under his hand.  
  
Mr. Schuester shepherds most of the students back to the auditorium, but Dean and Rachel have to wait for the police. Mr. Hummel offers to keep an eye on Sam so Dad can stay with Dean. Dean keeps his arm around Rachel the whole time. It doesn't mean anything. The girl is still freaking out, okay?  
  
"So what happened here?" Officer Krupke asks, once Dave Karofsky has been taken off in an ambulance.  
  
"I came back here after the concert, to oversee the return of the costumes, and I found him," Rachel says. "And I screamed, and then Dean came."  
  
"And you didn't see his attacker?" Officer Krupke asks, looking up from his notes.  
  
"We're wasting time here," Coach Sylvester says, and Dean's not even sure why she's there. "It's obvious that New Kid here did it."  
  
"What?" Dean and Dad say, at the same time.  
  
"They have a history of violent encounters. New Kid was recently suspended for breaking Mr. Karofsky's nose."  
  
"Is that true?" Officer Krupke asks.  
  
"No," Dean says. "Well, okay, I punched him in the nose. But it wasn't broken."  
  
"Dean, let me handle this," Dad says.  
  
"Anyway, I've been on stage for the last hour," Dean says. "How the hell would I have pulled this off?"  
  
"Son, I said _let me handle it_ ," Dad says, and then turns to Officer Krupke. "He's been on stage for the last hour. How the hell would he have pulled this off?"  
  
"Like anyone was paying any attention to anything on stage," Coach Sylvester says. "They could all have left and the only thing I would have noticed was that the vicious assault on my ears would have mercifully ended."  
  
"I would have noticed," Rachel says. "And I assure you that Dean was on stage with the rest of us the whole time."  
  
"But you have assaulted the victim previously?" the officer asks.  
  
"I just punched him." That time. "And that was only because he threw a slushie on my girlfriend." Crap. Did he just say _girlfriend_? "Anyway, that's not the same thing as knocking him out with a music stand."  
  
"Son, go wait in the hall."  
  
"Dad, I –"  
  
"Dean. Hall. Now," Dad says. "And take Rachel with you."  
  
"Just a minute," Officer Krupke says. "I have more questions for – "  
  
"No, you don't," Dad says. "Rachel found the victim and she screamed. My son came running because he heard his girlfriend scream. For the hour prior to that, they were both performing on stage with eleven other people, in full sight of a couple hundred witnesses. So the only way either of them was involved was if they were in two places at once."  
  
"I would be willing to vouch that I saw them both on stage the whole time," Ms. Pillsbury says.  
  
"Yeah, so would I," Mr. Schuester says.  
  
Dad looks from Officer Krupke to Coach Sylvester. "So we're done here."  
  
"Dean, Rachel, why don't you wait in the hall?" Mr. Schuester says. "Then if there are other legitimate questions the officer has for you, we'll know where to find you."  
  
Mr. Schuester closes the door behind them. Dean looks at Rachel. Rachel looks at Dean. They both press their ears to the door.  
  
It's more of the same, though. And while Dean can see why he'd make a good suspect were it not for the alibi thing . . . do people really think he could knock a guy unconscious and then walk away?  
  
"Oh, this is ridiculous," Rachel says. "I know you. You wouldn't do something like that."  
  
Is she reading his mind now? Not that he'd be completely surprised.  
  
"Thanks."  
  
And then they hear footsteps headed toward the door and both jump back, just before Coach Sylvester come charging into the hall. She stops, and looks at them. "Don't think any of this is over, New Kid. Your insult to my Cheerios will be redressed. I will be watching you. And your little Glee Club, too."

Caught In a Bad Romance (Though No Fault of His Own)

  
  
Puck is the only one to come right out and ask Dean how he did it, but based on the looks Dean's getting at school the next day, Puck isn't the only one wondering.  
  
"Come on, man, you can tell _me_ ," Puck says. "How'd you get him?"  
  
"I didn't," Dean says.  
  
"You don't want to tell me, I guess you don't have to tell me," Puck says, retreating to the other side of the choir room.  
  
"No, really," Dean calls after him. "And what the hell are you doing, Brittany?" he adds, because the girl has been staring at his feet all day long and it is starting to freak him out.  
  
"Watching your toes," she tells him, without looking up.  
  
"My _toes_? Why?"  
  
"Coach Sylvester said she wanted to know if you put one out of line."  
  
 _Great._  
  
"Just ignore them," Mercedes says, as he turns away from Brittany. "We know you didn't do it."  
  
Kurt, sitting next to her, nods. "We've got your back."  
  
"Swell."  
  
Just what he's always wanted. His own team of support dweebs.  
  
Fortunately, Mr. Schuester calls rehearsal to order before anyone else can weigh in.  
  
Unfortunately, rehearsal has to end sometime.  
  
Rachel stays behind to talk to Mr. Schuester about the concert – rather than all the stuff that happened after it – and says she'll meet Dean at his locker.  
  
The only problem with that plan is that it won't take Dean nearly as long to get his books as it will take Mr. Schuester to get away from Rachel.  
  
Dean is wondering just how much time he's going to have to kill hanging out in the hallway, when Santana turns up.  
  
"So," she says, without greeting or build up, "you busy?"  
  
"Right now?" Dean asks. Because he's clearly not, but he doesn't quite want to say _no._  
  
"Or later," she says. "I thought we could do something."  
  
He'll give her this. She packs a _lot_ of suggestions into those last two words.  
  
"Yeah?" he says. "Tell me something. You asking because you're actually interested in me, or because your coach told you to?"  
  
"Can't it be both?"  
  
"Sure, sweetheart. It can be anything you want." She smiles, and Dean knows he shouldn't, but he's going to enjoy this. He leans a little closer. "Anything you want," he says again, "except successful."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I have a girlfriend. Granted, I'm not sure how that happened, or even if I like that it happened, but it happened. So, thanks for the offer. I'm flattered, or whatever. But I ain't interested."  
  
Santana laughs. "You're not really turning me down because of Rachel Berry," she says, like it's the funniest thing she's heard all day.  
  
"Yeah, I am. I got news for you, Santana. You're hot, but you're not _that_ hot."  
  
Santana's eyes narrow, and then she leans up and kisses him.  
  
Okay, so, he lets it go on for a second. He's sixteen, and she is, as previously stated, hot. And then his brain wrests control back from his hormones, and he pushes her away. "Are you out of your mind?"  
  
Santana just looks down the hall and smiles. Dean turns just in time to see Rachel vanish around the corner.  
  
It occurs to Dean, as he's running down the hall after Rachel, that if he weren't running down the hall after Rachel, he'd be out of this insane relationship.  
  
But he'd also be a total dick.  
  
"Rachel, wait," he says, when she comes into view.  
  
"No," she says, still headed for the doors. "You obviously don't care at all about me, or us."  
  
"If that was true," he says, catching up to her and taking her arm, "do you really think I'd be chasing you down the hallway right now?"  
  
Rachel opens her mouth and then closes it again. _Aha_ , Dean thinks. _Gotcha_.  
  
"Then why," she says, after a moment, "were you kissing Santana?"  
  
"She was kissing me," Dean says. Well, mostly. "Look, I think that crazy cheerleading coach wants her to spy on me or something. She asked me out, I told her no, she kissed me, probably to piss you off, and then I came to find you. Whole story."  
  
Rachel sniffles.  
  
"I promise," Dean says.  
  
"Why?" she asks.  
  
"Why what?" Dean asks. Seriously, do girls even know what they're talking about most of the time?  
  
"Why did you tell her no? I mean, she's . . . "  
  
"Come on, Rachel, really? You have to ask?"  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"You're my girlfriend, okay?"  
  
Weird as that sounds.  
  
At least he's learned to expect the half-strangling hug he gets in response.  
  
"So, we good?" he asks.  
  
Rachel nods. "I'm so sorry I doubted you."  
  
Dean shrugs. "Don't worry about it. We'll just—"  
  
He stops, as for the second time in twenty-four hours, someone in McKinley High screams.

Shining, Gleaming, Streaming, Flaxen, Waxen

  
  
"Wait here," Dean tells Rachel, but of course she follows him.  
  
If you don't understand how acoustics work, it can be hard to figure out where an echoing scream is originating from, in a place like the halls of a high school.  
  
Of course, if you _do_ understand acoustics (and Dean does), you know exactly where you need to go.  
  
"What the—" Dean says.  
  
Santana stands in front of her open locker, staring into the mirror on the back of the door, clutching her head and still screaming.  
  
Her now completely bald head.  
  
Her hair, still in its regulation Cheerios ponytail, lies at her feet.  
  
Like it just fell off.  
  
"What's – oh, my God," Ms. Pillsbury says, arriving on the scene. She looks up at Santana's locker, and then over to Santana and down to the hair in the floor, and finally at Dean and Rachel. "What happened?"  
  
It's hard enough to follow girl speak even when it's not hysterical, but as far as Dean can tell, yeah, it really did just fall off.  
  
Which is weird. And not high school weird, but like . . . _weird_.  
  
"Hey, did you notice anything out of the ordinary when it happened?" Dean asks Santana.  
  
"You mean out of the ordinary like all my hair falling out?" she asks, with a Cheerios death glare.  
  
"No, besides that," Dean says. "Did it, I don't know, get really cold all of a sudden?"  
  
"Why would that--?"  
  
"Allergic reaction," Dean says.  
  
"No," Santana snaps.  
  
"Maybe it was stress," Rachel suggests. "That can make your hair fall out, right?"  
  
"Not like this," Santana says.  
  
"Did you hear anything? See anybody?" Dean asks.  
  
"I don't know. There was some girl, maybe. I just saw her out of the corner of my eye. Why does this matter?"  
  
"I think maybe we should go back to my office," Ms. Pillsbury says. And then looks down at Santana's hair. "Um, and we should probably take that with us."  
  
When no one else makes any move toward it, Dean sighs and says, "I got it." He picks up Santana's ponytail and follows them to Ms. Pillsbury's office, where they run into –  
  
"Dad?" Dean says, just as Ms. Pillsbury says, "John."  
  
Dad glances at the group in front of him, and if there's a short double take in reaction to the sight of a semi-hysterical, bald cheerleader, that's all the reaction there is. Then again, this probably doesn't even rank in the top twenty for weird things, for Dad.  
  
"Son," Dad says, like it's perfectly normal for him to be hanging around Dean's school after classes let out. "Emma," he adds, turning to Ms. Pillsbury. "I was starting to wonder if I had the wrong day."  
  
Correction. Like it's perfectly normal for him to be hanging around Dean's school and _on a first name basis with Dean's guidance counselor_.  
  
"No," Ms. Pillsbury says. "No, you don't. We're just having a little crisis—"  
  
"Little?" Santana demands.  
  
"—if you could just give me a few minutes?" Ms. Pillsbury says, ushering the girls into her office.  
  
Dean stays in the hall, though, staring at his father. "So, what, is this like a parent conference with Ms. Pillsbury?"  
  
Dad clears his throat. "Not exactly. We're just going to grab a cup of coffee or something."  
  
 _That_ , however, makes the top twenty for Dad and weird. It makes top three.  
  
"You have a date with Ms. Pillsbury? My guidance counselor?"  
  
" _Date_ is not exactly the word . . . she was really helpful last night, Dean, with all the stuff after your concert. I just wanted to thank her. I asked her out for coffee. That's all."  
  
"So," Dean says. "You have a date. With Ms. Pillsbury. My guidance counselor."  
  
"Yeah, I guess I do." Dad looks almost sheepish. This just keeps getting weirder. Dad doesn't do sheepish.  
  
"Look, Dad, she's like, afraid of dirt." He's talking too fast, and he's pretty sure he's babbling, but he doesn't stop. "Seriously, she has this five-gallon jug of hand sanitizer on her desk, and you should have seen her when she ran into a cockroach. It was like, you know, if a normal person ran into a zombie or something. And you work on cars and dig up gra—gardens," Dean amends, as they're in public. "Those are messy activities."  
  
"Well, I'm clean now, and it's just a cup of coffee, so we should be okay," Dad says. "But, Dean, if this is going to upset you—"  
  
"No, it's fine," Dean says. "It's cool. Whatever. I just have some stuff I need to take care of. You two have fun with the coffee. I guess."  
  
He's twenty feet down the hall before he realizes he's still holding Santana's hair.  
  
He turns around, walks back to Dad, and hands the ponytail over. "Give that to Ms. Pillsbury for me, would you?"

Just Very Slightly Mad

  
  
Dean has just about decided that there's something about Lima, Ohio that makes people go insane.  
  
Look at the evidence.  
  
1\. Dad has a _date_. And not even a cool date, but a lameass romantic comedy coffee date. With Dean's guidance counselor.  
  
2\. Dean has a girlfriend. A high strung, high maintenance girlfriend. Despite never actually setting out to get her.  
  
3\. People run around throwing slushies at each other, and no one seems to think there's anything weird about that.  
  
4\. The extracurricular activities are mandatory.  
  
5\. Coach Sylvester. Does he even need to explain that one?  
  
6\. Did he mention the part where _Dad_ has a _date_? With Ms. Pillsbury?  
  
Dean makes a mental note to stop drinking the tap water, and possibly to send a sample of it to Bobby for analysis.  
  
The problem is, there's nothing to explain how Santana's hair fell out, unless everyone is crazy because of a mass possession or something, in which case, Dean is screwed.  
  
Dean picks the lock on Santana's locker in a couple of seconds. Some locks are challenges. The one on the average high school locker is not.  
  
Of course, he's not really sure what he's hoping to find. If it’s a mass possession, there could be sulfur, but Dean can't say he's hoping for that outcome.  
  
And it's not like he's going to find a book called _How to Make Your Neighbors Go Crazy for Fun and Profit._  
  
At least, not probably.  
  
A razor, maybe. Santana could have gone all Britney Spears and done it herself, then freaked out when she realized. Except her hair had definitely been attached when he'd last seen her, and Dean doubts even a Parris Island barber could shave a head that fast.  
  
Dean rummages through Santana's locker, but doesn't find anything much of interest. Some books, a Cheerios binder, a hair brush (won't be needing that any time soon), $2.82 in change, eye shadow, lip gloss, and a nail file.  
  
No razor. No sulfur.  
  
Nothing that it doesn't make total sense for a teenaged girl to have in her locker.  
  
Dean's about to close the locker door when he sees it, wedged up in the top and back in the corner. A small white drawstring bag, which he is not at all surprised to find is full of dried plant bits.  
  
He finds two more in the choir room – one taped to the underside of the piano and one stashed behind some music books. And another in Mr. Schuester's desk in the Spanish classroom.  
  
There's one in Dean's locker, too. And one in Rachel's. And Artie's. He's willing to bet there's one in the locker of every member of the Glee Club.  
  
Hex bags.  
  
Which means a witch.  
  
He might have liked it better when he thought the whole town was just crazy.  
  
  
  
Songs Referenced in Part Three:  
"It's the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine)" by R.E.M.  
"Gee, Officer Krupke" from _West Side Story_  
"Bad Romance" by Lady Gaga  
"Hair" from _Hair_  
"I'm Going Slightly Mad" by Queen

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

Witchy Woman

  
  
Ordinarily, Dean's next step would be to confer with Dad, but Dad's off drinking coffee (and please let it just be regular old coffee, not some fussy latte thing) with Ms. Pillsbury so –  
  
 _Ms. Pillsbury._  
  
She had looked up into Santana's locker and right at the hex bag, when she got there. Before she looked at Dean or Rachel or even Santana.  
  
Which means she knew it was there.  
  
Which means she probably put it there.  
  
The school is now all but deserted, and the lock on Ms. Pillsbury's door isn't that much harder to pick than the one on Santana's locker.  
  
He finds the jars of herbs and supply of little drawstring bags in a box labeled "Extra Copies of Brochures."  
  
He's about to call Dad and warn him, somehow, before he gets roofied by a witch or something, when –  
  
"Dean, what are you doing in my office?"  
  
Apparently, it doesn't take that long to drink a cup of coffee.  
  
Damn.  
  
Ms. Pillsbury's eyes go to the box he's still going through. Dean decides that a good offense is the best defense, and tosses the hex bag he took out of Santana's locker to her. "Home ec project," he says. "Thought you might have some pointers on making my own."  
  
"It's not what you think it is," Ms. Pillsbury says.  
  
"I think you're a witch."  
  
"Okay, maybe it _is_ what you think it is," Ms. Pillsbury says.  
  
"What did you think I thought it was?"  
  
"Drugs."  
  
"Lady, I know a hex bag when I see one."  
  
"It's not a hex bag," Ms. Pillsbury says. "It's a protective sachet."  
  
"That's, like, French for _hex bag_." He probably ought to be more concerned about the fact that there's a witch between him and the door, but it's just kind of hard to find Ms. Pillsbury all that intimidating.  
  
"The intent is completely different." She spreads a tissue out on her desk and pours the bag's contents onto it. "Angelica root, fennel, salt – all for protection. I'm a good witch."  
  
"Yeah, you're a regular Glinda," Dean says. "I'm sure Santana would agree."  
  
"I feel just awful about that. I don't know what I did wrong. Unless it was the orange peel."  
  
"What's the orange peel for?"  
  
"To make it smell better."  
  
"Oh, yeah, that would be my first concern in spell work," Dean says.  
  
Ms. Pillsbury sighs and sinks into her desk chair. "I guess I'm not a very good witch. I mean, I guess I'm not very good at being a witch. But some of those spells require things that are just very unhygienic, you know. Look, Dean, believe me or not, but I would never hurt anybody. I know that isn't what hunters usually expect from witches—"  
  
"What do you know about hunters?" Dean demands. "And _how_ do you know about hunters?"  
  
"I'm the one who told Bobby Singer about Burt Hummel's needing a hand at the garage. I know what you and John—your dad—do."  
  
"Wait, you know Bobby? How come you know Bobby?"  
  
Is there anyone who _doesn't_ know Bobby?  
  
"Why does anyone know a hunter, Dean? He helped me out with something. The point is, we're on the same side here. Something felt really wrong in the choir room last night. I thought there might be something after you Glee kids. I was trying to protect you."  
  
Dean studies Ms. Pillsbury for a moment. The whole concept of a real life "good witch" sounds, well, nuts. But then, what _doesn't_ sound nuts in Lima at this point? And it is kind of hard to imagine Ms. I-Buy-My-Hand-Sanitizer-Wholesale trying to ritually slaughter a bunny. Or deal with any bodily fluids, including her own.  
  
Besides, if she knows Bobby . . .  
  
"No casting love spells on my dad," Dean says.  
  
"I would never do something like that," she says, obviously insulted by the very idea.  
  
Dean nods. "Okay, then." He's not still wild about any of it, but bigger problems and all that. "So, if you didn't make Santana's hair fall out, what did?"  
  
"Well, I've been thinking about that," Ms. Pillsbury says, and then stops as Dean holds up a hand. "What?"  
  
"Did you hear that?"  
  
"Hear what?"  
  
"It sounded like . . ." Dean stops, as there's another shattering sound from the hallway, ". . . breaking glass." Ms. Pillsbury get up and grabs the broom from behind her door. Dean looks at her. "A broomstick? Seriously?"  
  
She hands him a dustpan. "Broken glass can be dangerous. Someone could get cut."  
  
His life cannot get any weirder.

You Think You Got the Right, But I Think You Got It Wrong

  
  
It's obvious, though, that there's way more broken glass than they're going to be able to deal with using a single broom and dustpan. The trophy cases look like the victims of a series of run-ins with a sledge hammer, and cheerleading awards are scattered across the empty hall.  
  
And then they hear the voice from around the corner.  
  
"I demand that you return that trophy to its rightful place immediately."  
  
Coach Sylvester. Perfect. Just what the day needed.  
  
"And don't think some Halloween mask is going to –"  
  
The rest of Coach Sylvester's warning is lost in a crash that sounds a lot like a national championship cheerleading trophy hitting a row of lockers.  
  
Coach Sylvester, in a yellow and orange track suit (and where does she find these things?) is chasing after a girl in a witch's costume, complete with pointy hat, who is headed for the next trophy case.  
  
"Sue," says Ms. Pillsbury, "maybe you should . . ."  
  
"Not now, Erma."  
  
Dean passes them both and reaches the witch. The costume is a little less subtle than he's used to evil being, but sometimes, black and white is nice. "Hey," he says, and she turns to look at him.  
  
Okay, so maybe he should have said black and white and green.  
  
"Yes, Sue, now –" Ms. Pillsbury begins, and then catches sight of the witch's face. "Oh my."  
  
The girl's skin is green. And she looks like –  
  
"You two keep an eye on this miscreant," Coach Sylvester orders. "I am going to call Principal Figgins. And get my superglue. You, young lady, are going to repair every single one of those trophies before you are shipped off to reform school."  
  
The witch watches Coach Sylvester leave, then looks back at Dean, smiles, and vanishes.  
  
"That was the Wicked Witch of the West," Ms. Pillsbury says.  
  
"No," Dean says. "It just looked like her."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Never mind."  
  
"Where did she go?"  
  
"I have a theory about that," Dean says. "Can you handle Coach Sylvester without me? I need to check something out."  
  
"Probably. So you think you know what's going on?"  
  
"No, but I think I know who might."  
  
"Okay," Ms. Pillsbury says. "Be careful."  
  
"Thanks. Oh, and um, can I borrow your car?"

Don't Stop Believing (Just Stop Believing in THAT)

  
  
It makes a kind of sense.  
  
Dave Karofsky had thrown a slushie on Rachel and was planning to put itching powder on the Glee Club members' clothes.  
  
Santana made a pass at Rachel's boyfriend.  
  
Coach Sylvester threatened that boyfriend and the Glee Club in front of Rachel.  
  
And that witch had looked a hell of a lot like more like Dean's girlfriend than it had looked like Margaret Hamilton. If, you know, Rachel had green skin and even worse taste in clothes. Ms. Pillsbury and Coach Sylvester didn't seem to have noticed, but the whole situation had been kind of distracting, even before you factor in the effect of green skin. And he's probably a lot more familiar with Rachel's face than they are  
  
But Dean is pretty sure that Rachel, as talented as she is, cannot make herself vanish, which means Rachel wasn't the witch.  
  
Which would be the part where it stops making sense.  
  
Still, whatever's going on, all roads lead to Rachel, including the street Dean's driving down.  
  
The trick, of course, is going to be not spooking her, or tipping her off, until he knows what she's up to.  
  
He's expecting to have to distract her somehow while he searches her room, or the whole house. Instead, he spots it from her bedroom doorway.  
  
Just in front of some kind of exercise machine, there's a foot square wooden shrine thing, decorated with about a dozen seriously powerful symbols from about six different traditions.  
  
"What the hell is this?" Dean approaches it warily, circling it for a better look.  
  
Rachel beams. "Do you like it? It's my Achieve Your Dreams Meditation Shrine. I found it online. The site said that if you focused on it, and thought very hard about what you wanted, you could bring your dreams into reality."  
  
"That's not all you've brought into reality," Dean says, studying the emblems on the front of the shrine.  
  
"What?"  
  
"This is a Tibetan Spirit Sigil," Dean says, pointing at it. "You use it to it to focus your thoughts, and bring a tulpa into being."  
  
"What's a tulpa?" she asks.  
  
"It's a thought form. A physical manifestation of one. You focus on a symbol like this one, think about something hard enough, and poof, it exists. And this one looks like you."  
  
"There's a thought form that looks like me?" Rachel asks.  
  
"Yeah, only green. Like the Wicked Witch of the West."  
  
 _Now_ it makes sense. It's her dream part, after all. She told him so. And, yeah, okay, so it can take twenty monks to pull something like this off, but Dean is willing to bet there ain't a monk on Earth who can focus on his goals like Rachel Berry can.  
  
"Elphaba," she corrects. "And she wasn't wicked—"  
  
"So not the point right now," Dean tells her.  
  
"Right. Sorry."  
  
"Have you been thinking about anything else while you stare at this thing?"  
  
"No," Rachel says, too quickly, looking away.  
  
Dean just manages not to sigh. "What was it?"  
  
"Well, nothing. Just . . . that it would be nice to be popular and stuff. Not get slushies thrown at me and have cheerleaders mock me and . . ."  
  
"Well, congratulations. You've created an avenging Elphaba. I saw her at the school earlier, smashing cheerleading trophies. She probably cast a spell on Santana, and whacked Karofsky with the music stand, too."  
  
"I'm the reason all that happened?" Rachel asks, sounding suspiciously like she's going to cry.  
  
"Look, let's just get rid of this thing before anything else happens, okay?"  
  
Rachel nods, her eyes watering.  
  
He's probably going to have to do some kind of supportive boyfriend thing here, isn't he?  
  
"Rachel, it'll be okay. We'll just take care of it. And you know you don't need crap like that thing. You're freakishly obsessive and super talented, and you don't need some lameass internet shrine to achieve anything."  
  
Rachel sniffles and smiles a little. "You think I'm talented?"  
  
"You're amazing. You know that."  
  
Rachel throws her arms around him. "You are like the best boyfriend ever."  
  
Dean hugs her back for a second. Maybe this having a girlfriend thing isn't all bad.

A Hard Day's Night (And Apparently Not Over Yet)

  
  
Dean reaches into the cardboard bucket and grabs another chicken leg. It's been a busy day, what with witches and shrines and coffee dates, and no one really had time to cook.  
  
"Don't eat all the drumsticks," Sam says.  
  
"There's probably another one in there," Dean says, then turns his attention back to filling Dad in on that afternoon's impromptu hunt. There's been a lot to go over, including the fact that Dad had been on a date (which was news to Sam) with a witch (which, if it was news to Dad, he took in his usual stride).  
  
"Anyway," Dean says, "Rachel wanted to confess or something, but I told her no one was going to believe her and just to stay away from the occult in the future. She said something about paying it forward or getting her karma tuned up or something. So then I drove Ms. Pillsbury's car back, filled her in on what had happened, and that was that. I think everyone'll be okay."  
  
"So you destroyed the shrine?"  
  
"Salted and burned. Torched the sucker in the fireplace." It had been awesome. "And here's the URL for the place she ordered it from," Dean says, wiping chicken grease off his fingers before taking the paper out of his pocket and handing it to Dad. "I thought Bobby might want to look into it."  
  
He's waiting for Dad to congratulate him on having thought of everything.  
  
"And the tulpa?" Dad asks.  
  
"What about it?" Dean asks.  
  
"Well, you know, once one is created, it takes on a life of its own. Destroying the sigil doesn't destroy the tulpa. You have to take care of it, too."  
  
Oh.  
  
Oh, crap.  
  
"Totally under control," Dean says. He pushes his chair back from the table. "May I be excused?"  
  
Dad looks at Dean's half-full plate. "You're done?"  
  
"Yeah. Just remembered something I forgot at school."  
  
Dad looks amused. "You gonna need help getting it?"  
  
"No, sir. I'm good."  
  
Dad nods. "Okay."  
  
As Dean's leaving the kitchen, he hears Sam say, "He's going to destroy the tulpa, isn't he? Are we gonna have to go help with that? I have a book report to write."  
  
"We'll given him an hour first," Dad says. "Pass the potatoes, Sammy."

Another One Bites the Dust (To the Sound of the Beat)

  
  
The problem is twofold, really. First, he's got to find the damn thing.  
  
And then he has to figure out how to destroy it.  
  
Dean has a hunch on about the destroying part, one which requires a quick detour to pick up supplies. He'll have to hope it works, because he has no real back-up plan. As for finding it . . . well, he heads for the only place he knows the tulpa has been.  
  
William McKinley High School needs better security. Even the lock on the side entrance to the building doesn't put up much more of a fight than the one to Ms. Pillsbury's office did.  
  
Now . . . if he was a tulpa of the Broadway reimagining of a pop culture icon of evil as created by a sixteen-year-old diva, where would he hang out after hours?  
  
Maybe it sings, too? He tries the auditorium and the choir room, but nothing. Rechecks the sites of the attacks on Santana and the cheerleading trophies. Zilch.  
  
He's headed for the girls' locker room (what? it's a totally logical place to look) when he hears music coming from the classroom to his right. Dean tightens his grip on the weapon in his hand and steps into the room.  
  
There's no witch, just a music box, sitting on desk in the middle of the room, playing a tinny version of "Over the Rainbow." It could be freakier, but only if it had been one of those monkeys banging cymbals. Maybe one with wings, to go with the whole Oz theme.  
  
Dean closes the lid to the music box. There's a note taped to the top.  
  
 _I'll get you, my pretty._  
  
"What, and my little dog, too?" Dean asks the empty classroom. "I'm not really in the mood to pass notes in class here, sweetheart."  
  
In response, the classroom door swings shut.  
  
And standing behind it is the tulpa, with its tall black hat and green skin.  
  
It raises its broomstick, in a manner that's probably meant to be menacing, and advances toward him.  
  
Slowly.  
  
Like, really slowly.  
  
Way to completely blow the advantage of surprise. Because, sure, this is all very dramatic and theatrical, but it's hardly a good way to win a fight.  
  
Dean watches the tulpa for a few seconds, then takes the lid off the cup in his hand and throws forty-four ounces of grape slushie over it.  
  
The look on the tulpa's face as it starts to dissolve into the floor is actually pretty priceless.  
  
It looks so confused.  
  
"You're melting, melting," Dean tells it. "And yeah, I know that doesn't happen in your play, Rachel explained all that. But this isn't a play. This is high school."  
  
Dean looks down at the pointed hat in a puddle of purple slushie – all that now remains of Rachel's tulpa. Dean's willing to call it over, but he'll burn the hat and the music box, anyway. And check with Dad. Just to be sure.  
  
He shakes purple slush off the hat as he retrieves it from the puddle in the floor. "If you'd only had a brain."

Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da, Life Goes On

  
  
Dean swings by Ms. Pillsbury's office the next day to fill her in on melting the tulpa. He tries to make it sound like he knew all along that he'd have to destroy it, too, but he's not sure he quite sells it.  
  
All she says, though, is "So, it's over now?"  
  
"Should be," Dean says. "I mean, I'll keep an eye on things for a while, but it should be. Just, you know, if anything weird happens, let me know. Or call my dad."  
  
"About your dad, Dean—"  
  
"Look, if you and my dad want to have coffee or whatever, that's fine. But I really don't want to talk about it."  
  
Ms. Pillsbury nods, and Dean heads for Glee Club rehearsal.  
  
On the way, he passes Karofsky, who has a knot on his head and a group of his friends hanging around. He's telling them, in detail, about the _huge, muscle-bound_ guy who attacked him at the concert, and how he fought back, and how close he came to winning.  
  
Dean rolls his eyes. Because, yeah, okay, because the tulpa might have been a legitimate threat, but it was shaped roughly like Dean's girlfriend, who is neither huge nor muscle-bound. And Dean suspects Karofsky didn't see a damn thing before it happened, never mind have time to fight back.  
  
Rachel catches up to him as he continues down the hall, and links her arm through his in a way he's getting used to. She looks back at Karofsky. "Are you sure I shouldn't apologize to them? To him and Santana?"  
  
"Positive," Dean says. "They're not going to believe you, even if you do. At best, people will think you're joking. At worst, they'll lock you up for some intensive therapy."  
  
Though it's possible Rachel could use some intensive therapy.  
  
"I know," Rachel says. "I'll just be really nice to them."  
  
"You do that," Dean says.  
  
Rachel puts on a bright smile when they run into Santana in the choir room door. "Hi, Santana. You look nice today."  
  
"Whatever," Santana says, with a toss of her very convincing wig. Dean probably wouldn't even have noticed it wasn't really her hair if he hadn't known to look.  
  
Dean takes his usual seat between Rachel and Artie. Behind them, Kurt and Mercedes are examining the small gold metal pompom stuck to the end of one of Brittany's fingers. From what Dean can overhear, Coach Sylvester, unable to find the tulpa, has had the Cheerios on trophy repair detail. And apparently, Brittany and superglue are a bad combination.  
  
Shocker, that.  
  
"Okay, guys," says Mr. Schuester, coming into the room. "Today I want to talk about being spontaneous and improvising. I want you all to get up and sing the first song that comes into your head. Don't think about it, don't worry about whether or not it's the 'right' song, or even if you know all the words. Just get up and start singing." He looks around the room. "Do we have a volunteer to go first?"  
  
Dean puts his hand in the air even before Rachel does.  
  
"Dean, go ahead," Mr. Schuester says.  
  
Dean gets up, takes his place in front of the piano, and sings.  
  
 _Ding dong! The witch is dead,  
Which old witch? The Wicked Witch  
Ding dong! The Wicked Witch is dead . . . _  
  
  
  
Songs Referenced in Part Four:  
"Witchy Woman" by the Eagles  
"Mickey" by Toni Basil  
"Don't Stop Believing" by Journey  
"A Hard Day's Night" by The Beatles  
"Another One Bites the Dust" by Queen  
"Over the Rainbow" from _The Wizard of Oz_  
"Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da" by The Beatles  
"Ding Dong! The Witch Is Dead" from _The Wizard of Oz_

 


End file.
